


softer than shadow

by fatal_drum



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Breeding Kink, Cervical Penetration, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, M/M, Mind Control, Oviposition, Possessive Jon, Trans Martin Blackwood, spoilers for TMA 194
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29619903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Annabelle promises Martin she can stop Jon from becoming one with the Eye, in exchange for onesmallfavor. Martin probably should have asked for more details.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Annabelle Cane, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 14
Kudos: 84





	softer than shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to cuttooth for betaing this monstrosity, and to twodrunkencelestials for cheerleading! You guys are the best!
> 
> Words used for Martin’s anatomy: breasts, cunt, cock

Martin is fuming with rage. It’s not fair that he’s in love with the world’s most self-sacrificing idiot. Besides, being a self-sacrificing idiot was supposed to be  _ his  _ job, not Jon’s. Where does Jon get off thinking that’s okay? 

He holes up in the storage room, kicking a can of soup marked  _ Death Calls.  _ The can hits the wall with a satisfying  _ clunk,  _ sporting a large dent. He immediately feels guilty, and that just makes him angrier. 

“He can’t do it,” he mutters, wrapping his arms around himself and leaning against the wall. “I won’t let him. All-powerful my  _ arse.” _

He’s looking around for something else to kick when he hears the phone ring. His head snaps to the side, following the noise to its source: a pay phone. He doesn’t recall there being a pay phone in the tunnels. 

The ringing continues. He’s surprised no one has come to investigate; it’s certainly loud enough. Slowly, he approaches the phone and picks up the receiver. 

“Hello?” he says, feeling a bit foolish. 

“Hello, Martin,” Annabelle purrs. “It’s good to hear your voice.” 

“What do  _ you  _ want?” he snaps. 

He can hear the smirk in her voice. “The same thing you do. To make it better.” 

“You can’t do that. You  _ wouldn’t,  _ even if you could.”

“I’m  _ hurt,  _ Martin,” she drawls. “For someone who hates to be underestimated, you’ve no problem doing it to me. You really don’t know me at all.” 

“I know what you work for. What you represent.”

“And you also know what that boyfriend of yours wants to do, don’t you?”

Martin’s mouth goes dry. He swallows, trying to come up with a retort, and Annabelle’s laughter rings in his ears. 

“You thought I wouldn’t know, didn’t you? Look, I’ll make things simple for you. You can come outside and help me save your boyfriend, or you can stay there and let him throw himself on his sword.” 

Martin covers the mouthpiece with his hand, muttering every curse he knows. His eyes squeeze shut as he realizes what he’s going to do. What he was always going to do. 

Annabelle doesn’t bother waiting for his response. 

“See you soon, pet.” 

Martin slams the receiver down as hard as he can. 

==

He goes to her. Of course he goes. It doesn’t matter if she’s lying; she’s his only option, outside of making Jon see reason, which has a snowball’s chance in hell. And maybe she  _ does  _ want to help. He remembers Peter’s words:  _ If I were to guess, I would say it actually prefers the world as is: playing everyone against each other. _

If there’s even a chance she can help, he has to take it. That doesn’t mean he can let his guard down around her, but it’s  _ something.  _ It’s more than he had. 

He knows that if the Web wants him, it will just take him. He can’t begin to guess its motives. For all he knows, it wants him to refuse, to stay safe and useless in the tunnels. Any move could be a bluff, or a double bluff; there’s no winning against the Web. Even Elias knew that. 

Annabelle smiles when she catches sight of him. She’s seated behind the wheel of a blood red convertible, her hair pulled back in a colorful scarf, like a vintage ad. 

“Martin! So pleased to see you. Hop in.”

Martin’s always fantasized about leaping over the door to a convertible like an action hero, landing stylishly in his seat. He doesn’t try that now. Annabelle gives him a smirk, as if she knows what he was thinking about. 

“Where did you get a car?” he asks suspiciously. 

“This old thing? Oh, they’re everywhere. The owner had a bit of a  _ fall,  _ if you catch my meaning.” 

Martin shudders, and tries not to think of rollercoasters. Annabelle turns on the radio. Cheerful 80s music blares from the speakers:  _ I always feel like...somebody’s watching me… _

“Sorry,” she says unapologetically. “Someone has a sense of humor.”

Martin ponders the mechanics of sentient car speakers while she pulls out into the street. Her movements are smooth and confident, as if she’s been driving this car for her entire life. It helps that there’s no traffic. 

Martin manages to keep silent until they’re out of Chelsea. He finally gives into curiosity and asks, “So, how are you going to help?” 

“Someone needs to stop your little boyfriend,” Annabelle says, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. 

“I’m not hurting Jon,” he says firmly. 

“You don’t have to hurt him,” she promises. “You just have to make him see reason.”

Martin snorts. “You try that.”

“It won’t work, coming from me. From you, though?” She smiles, showing every one of her teeth. “It will be just the nudge he needs.”

Martin raises an eyebrow. “You think I can convince him.”

Annabelle turns her gaze on him. Her eyes are a deep amber, fringed with long lashes, and they seem to look right through him. “Oh, sweetheart. I  _ know  _ you will.”

“How?” he demands. 

“I’ll show you,” she says coyly.

“Out of the goodness of your heart?”

She laughs, a sound like bells. “I might need one  _ teensy  _ little favor.” 

He bites his lip. “What’s the favor?” 

“It’s easier if I show you.” 

Martin sighs, sinking down into the passenger seat. He should have known getting answers out of Annabelle would be like pulling teeth. They pass through a blood-spattered battlefield while the radio plays “Psycho Killer.” Martin flinches as a knife whizzes by the passenger side, but Annabelle is completely unfazed, driving as if they’re on a Sunday outing to the park. It’s almost a relief when the chaos gives way to a fog-wreathed moor. Predictably, the radio shifts to “Owner of a Lonely Heart.” It’s a surprisingly short amount of time before a familiar house comes into view. 

“I didn’t think Oxford was this close to London,” he says as they pull into the driveway. 

“It isn’t,” she says. “But this place? Is close to  _ everything.”  _

He thinks he understands. 

The door is unlocked, and Annabelle strides in like she owns the place, which he supposes she might as well. 

“Is all that stuff you told Jon true?” he asks. 

She turns her amber gaze on him again. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” he says, irritated. “Maybe? It’d be nice to know you’re not a complete liar.” 

She laughs, sounding delighted. “I could lie about lying. There’s no way to know. You’ll just believe what you want to believe anyway.”

He scowls. “Are you at least going to tell me what your little favor is?”

Annabelle tilts her head, considering. “I suppose I could. But then you would just get frightened, and what good is that?” She smiles sunnily. “I have a better idea.” 

She snaps her fingers, and suddenly Martin freezes in place. He can’t move at all. His heart races. He tries to open his mouth, to run away, to do  _ anything,  _ but his body refuses to obey. She turns away, and his body follows her down the hall, then up the stairs. She shoots a wink over her shoulder as she opens a door, leading him into a bedroom. 

“On the bed, please,” she says primly, and his body is already crossing the room. “Clothes off, of course.” 

He lets out a low whimper as his hands pull his jumper overhead. He folds it neatly, placing it on the floor by the bed, before removing his binder. 

His gaze stays locked on Annabelle as he undresses. She’s wearing a wild assortment of clothes: a poet’s shirt under a leather waistcoat, with a hot pink miniskirt, ripped teal leggings, and combat boots. She strips below the waist but leaves on her blouse and waistcoat. His eyes are drawn between her legs. Her cock juts proudly from her smooth, shaved folds. At least he thinks it’s a cock. There’s no head, nor testes, or other features he’d expect. It’s thick and smooth, with a tapered end. She wraps her hand around it, giving it a slow, lingering stroke. 

“You look like you want a taste,” she says with a smirk. “Kneel.” 

Martin kneels, and she approaches, a predatory gleam in her eye. 

“Say  _ ‘ahh,’ ” _ she teases, taking her cock in hand and guiding it between his obediently-opened lips. 

She doesn’t have to tell him to suck; his mouth does that on its own, lapping at the tip before his lips close around her. The taste is oddly sweet, like nectar. It makes his head feel foggy and far away, like he’s drunk too much wine.

“Oh, you’re  _ good,”  _ she croons, raking her nails through his hair. 

He doesn’t understand. If she wanted sex, she could have anyone; she’s beautiful. There’s no need for her to drag him out to Hilltop Road, to force him onto his knees in her bedroom. His head bobs as he takes her deeper, and she moans appreciatively. She grips his hair tightly before pulling him closer, forcing her way into his throat. He gags, eyes watering as he chokes around her thick cock, until she murmurs, “Calm down, pet,” and his throat automatically relaxes. It’s almost worse than the choking. 

She uses his mouth shamelessly, moaning as she works her cock in and out of his throat. He can’t stop the tears from flowing down his face, though they don’t seem to bother her. She strokes her thumbs through the wetness as she fucks his face, telling him all the while what a good boy he is, and the praise sparks unwanted warmth in his chest. 

“Do you want my load in your mouth, sweet boy?” she asks, pulling out just enough for him to speak. 

_ “Yes, Annabelle,”  _ he says, his mouth shaping the words she wants to hear. Bile rises in his throat.  _ “Please.” _

She smiles brightly. “Such a polite little slut. How could I say no to that?” 

She wraps her hand around her spit-slick cock, stroking roughly until the tip begins to gleam with pearly fluid. With her free hand, she pulls him onto her cock just in time for him to catch her spend on his tongue. He swallows dutifully, then licks her clean with careful strokes of his tongue, and she shudders with pleasure. 

“Such a good pet,” she praises, stroking his hair. 

Heat begins to curl through his body, making his face flush pink. The foggy feeling in his mind is worse. Gooseflesh breaks out along his skin, and his nipples harden painfully, his entire body crying out to be touched. He lets out a whine, and Annabelle cups his cheek. 

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not done with you yet.”

She guides him to lie on the bed with his legs spread wide. His cock throbs, and his cunt is so wet it’s dripping. His cheeks burn with humiliation. There’s nowhere to hide, no way to stop what’s about to happen, and his stupid body is content to go along with it. 

Annabelle is still hard, her cock drooling as she lowers herself over his body. The silk of her shirt rubs against his hard nipples, and he moans, arching his back. She laughs and cups his breasts firmly. 

“These are nice,” she says, swiping her thumbs over his nipples. “I’d love to fuck them. You’d squeal so sweetly for me, wouldn’t you? But that would be a waste of eggs.” 

Before he can process her statement, she leans down to scrape her teeth against his breast, sucking a deep purple bruise into the flesh, and he gasps and thrashes under her. He cries out loud when her teeth sink into his nipple. His cock throbs with need. 

Her hand trails down to his stomach, squeezing gently. 

“You’re going to be so pretty with my babies in you,” she says fondly. 

His mind finally catches up, and freezes. She can’t mean what he thinks she means. It’s not possible. 

Eight amber eyes stare down at him as she lines herself up, dragging the tip of her cock against his slick, swollen folds. He swallows, throat working as he tries to protest, but his body refuses to cooperate. It’s Annabelle’s body now, Annabelle’s toy, to do with as she pleases. 

“You do want this, don’t you, pet?” she asks, rubbing her cock up and down his slit. He shudders beneath her. “You want me to fill you with eggs? To make you mine?”

_ “Yes, Annabelle, please!”  _ he begs, hips surging up to meet her. _ “I need you inside of me. I need you to put your babies in me.” _

“You’re so sweet,” she says, patting his cheek. 

Slowly, she presses inside, stretching him open. It’s been a while—he and Jon rarely do this—so his body resists the intrusion, even with how wet he is. It seems to take forever for her to slide all the way in, and by the time she does, he’s panting. 

_ Jon.  _ Tears well in his eyes just thinking about him. He’d be so disgusted if he knew what Martin was doing. What he was  _ letting  _ Annabelle do. 

“You take it so well,” she praises, kissing his sweaty face. “You were made for this.”

She grips his hips with two hands, pulling out only to thrust in even deeper. Two more hands grip his shoulders, while another rests against his throat; still another slides between their bodies, stroking his cock. He whimpers, overwhelmed by the sensory input coming from every direction. Without his volition, his legs hook around her waist, drawing her closer. 

Her thrusts rock the bed as she fucks him with merciless precision. He can feel the tension building between his thighs, winding tighter and tighter.

“It’s okay, pet,” she says, squeezing his throat gently. “You can come.”

And just like that, he  _ does,  _ spine bowing almost painfully as he spasms around her cock. She strokes him through it, drawing out his orgasm until he’s sobbing and shaking beneath her. 

“We haven’t even gotten to the best bit,” she says brightly. 

Something inside him  _ moves,  _ like a probing tongue, delving deep into his most secret places. Heat spreads through him as it licks at his cervix. To his alarm, it doesn’t stop there, pushing through until it’s deeper than anything he’s ever felt. He can feel it stretching him open, leaving a deep, half-pleasurable ache inside him as it makes room for...something else. 

Annabelle lets out a low moan, and something pushes at his entrance, thick and demanding. It feels as large as a fist, and he lets out a low whine that Annabelle shushes with a kiss. He wants to beg her to stop, even as the heat surges through him, but his voice won’t work. 

The intrusion makes its way deeper, and the pressure on his entrance fades.  _ It’s an egg,  _ he realizes, eyes widening in terror.  _ She’s laying her eggs in me. It’s happening.  _

He imagines the eggs hatching and eating their way out of his body, and he begins to tremble. But there’s no way to stop it, nothing for him to do but lie there as the egg works its way inside him. Pain flashes through him as it breeches his cervix, whiting out his vision as it forces him open. 

“You’re doing so well,” Annabelle praises, and he can’t help the gratitude that washes over him. She strokes his belly gently as the egg finally makes it inside. 

He doesn’t have time to relax, because the next egg is already pushing its way inside him. It’s a little easier this time, but it’s still an uncomfortable stretch. He groans as it forces its way into his womb. He already feels uncomfortably full. 

It isn’t until the third egg enters him that it occurs to him to wonder how many there are. He pictures her filling him with eggs until he bursts, leaving nothing but a ruined shell. The fourth is already forcing its way inside.

“You look like you want to say something, pet,” she murmurs, stroking his cheek. 

All at once, Martin can speak again. 

_ “Please stop!” _ he sobs, the words coming out in a rush. “Please, I can’t take it, you’re going to kill me—” 

She laughs, tapping a finger against his lips, and just like that, he’s silent again. Hot tears stream down his face as she clucks her tongue. 

“Oh, pet,” she chides him. “Don’t be so dramatic.” 

Her long, clever fingers stroke his cock again, and he convulses around her with a loud groan, eyes rolling back in his head. She doesn’t stop, though, doesn’t even let up, stroking him until he’s howling through a haze of pleasure-pain. The eggs are coming faster now, to the point that he’s lost count, and he can feel his belly growing distended with them. He’s pregnant,  _ gravid;  _ just a vessel for whatever skittering, chitinous things she’s put in him. His body will never be the same. 

Another hand rubs his belly, and the eggs jostle against each other in his womb, sending waves of overwhelming sensation through him, until he screams, body clenching slick and tight around her. She works him through each shuddering, shivering wave, until he feels stripped bare, like a raw nerve, painfully exposed. He can’t  _ breathe,  _ he’s going to suffocate, pinned under the weight of all her eggs— 

“Calm  _ down,”  _ she snaps, and suddenly his body is taking slow, even breaths, even as his head spins with lack of oxygen. Tears stream down his face as he fights her control, and loses, over and over again. 

She takes his face between her hands, looking serious. 

“Now, pet, I’m going to need you to take good care of those for me, yeah?”

Unwillingly, Martin nods his assent. She beams, cleaning down to kiss his cheek. 

“I always thought Jon would make a good father.” She pats his round, swollen belly, making him groan. “I’m sure he’ll prove me right.”

She rises from the bed, bending gracefully to pick up her scattered clothes. There isn’t a trace of self-consciousness as she dresses. After a moment’s thought, she takes his jumper, wrapping it around her shoulders. 

“It’ll look good on me,” she says with a wink. It’s true. She’s the sort of woman who looks good in anything. She pauses in the doorway. “Now be a good boy and wait for that boyfriend of yours. I’m sure he’ll be  _ very  _ pleased.” 

With that, she leaves him alone, filthy and sore and swollen with eggs. His body won’t let him move, except to curl onto his side, arms wrapped around his distended belly. He has no choice but to wait. His eyes squeeze shut, and he loses any semblance of control he had, sobbing brokenly until he passes out. 

* * *

“Martin!  _ Martin!” _

Martin curls in tighter on himself, unable to deal with any more pain. His belly feels tight and uncomfortable. Something warm descends on him, wrapping him gently. 

“Martin, please. I need you to be alright.”

Martin cracks open one eye. Jon’s worried face is inches from his. 

“Is—is she gone?” Martin croaks. His throat is curiously dry. 

“She’s gone,” Jon promises. “Can I touch you?”

Martin nods, and Jon curls around him, wrapping his thin arms around Martin’s body. 

“I’m so sorry,” Jon whispers. 

Martin swallows, burying his face in Jon’s shoulder. He feels like a touch might make him shatter into a million pieces. Too many to ever be put back together again. 

“Did she hurt you?” Jon asks softly.

Martin bursts into tears, clinging to Jon like a lifeline. Every word, every image, every sensation rushes through him again, all at once, making bile rise in his throat. 

“I shouldn’t have left you,” Jon says, stroking Martin’s hair from his face. I’m so, so sorry…”

“I’m the one who went with her,” Martin sobs, gripping Jon tighter. 

“What did she do to you?” Jon’s voice is laced with compulsion. Part of Martin is almost grateful; he’s not sure he could bring himself to form the words without help. 

The whole story comes spinning out of him: the humiliation, the helplessness, the way she tasted on his tongue. The way her eggs stretched him open, filling him to the brim. Jon’s hand trails down to Martin’s belly, rubbing in soothing circles. The touch floods Martin with unexpected warmth, making his eyelids heavy

“She knew you were mine,” Jon says harshly. “She  _ knew.  _ I won’t let this go unanswered.”

Jon’s lips brush Martin’s forehead, and he finds himself drifting off, too exhausted to cling to consciousness any longer. 

“I’ll take care of you,” Jon whispers, and Martin knows he will. 

He’s safe now. 

Annabelle was right. Jon will never leave him after this. 


End file.
